


tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us

by countmeaway



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Lack of Communication, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Rimming, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8194064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countmeaway/pseuds/countmeaway
Summary: “What the fuck did we do.” Dean’s voice is loud, harsh, disbelieving, and it pulls Roman’s eyes away from his phone, over to where Dean’s sitting on the bed, and he’d really like to know the answer to that, too.
“Guess we got married.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> set post money in the bank. au in that roman was never married, and wasn't suspended.
> 
> disclaimer: i own nothing, only the words written here. title from richard siken's scheherazade.
> 
> (minor content warning in the end notes)

The first thing Roman’s aware of when he wakes up is the body pressed against him, an arm slung across his chest, a leg wrapped around his waist. It’s not that unfamiliar; for all the distance Dean sometimes tries to put between them when they fall asleep, he’s a fucking octopus, arms and legs all over the place, almost to the point of being suffocating.

It’s not that Roman minds, not at all, but he’s a hot sleeper, can barely stand to cover because he wakes up sweaty and overheated, and with Dean clinging to him, it’s worse, sweat sticking their skin together, feeling like they’re trapped in a furnace.

Normally, Roman loves waking up next to Dean, with Dean all over him, even with the sweat coating his skin, but today, today Roman’s just not having any of it. His head is pounding, his stomach roiling, and his mouth tastes like roadkill was his midnight snack.

He tries to think back on the night before, but everything is blank. The last thing he remembers is Dean dragging him to some bar on the outskirts of Vegas, high on adrenaline and excitement, and Roman couldn’t say no to him, even in the face of his own loss.

He hasn’t had a drunken blackout in years, since his first year in college, and not remembering what happened the previous night makes his head throb harder, his stomach trying valiantly to escape through his mouth.

“Dean, move,” Roman says, pushes at Dean’s shoulder, pressing a hand over his mouth when it starts watering, the tell-tale signal he’s about to be sick.

Dean makes a disgruntled noise, but he stays where he is, arm and leg tightening where they’re slung across Roman’s body.

Roman forcibly pushes Dean away, stumbling out of bed and blearily making his way to the bathroom, grateful that he’s been to Dean’s house so many times he could find his way in the dark, blindfolded.

His knees crack as he hits the floor, and he barely manages to push his hair out of the way before his insides paint the toilet bowl, eyes burning as acid stings his throat.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, stomach heaving, aching, and he’s exhausted when he pushes himself up, legs like rubber, flushing the toilet before he staggers to the sink, splashing cold water over his face then rinsing his mouth, and that action makes him pause, sharply aware of the weight on his finger that wasn’t there before.

He pulls his hand back, staring down at it, and he has to blink repeatedly before he can make sense of what he’s seeing, the silver band there, wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand.

“What the fuck.”

He nearly trips over his feet in his haste to get back to the bedroom, and any other time he’d be enamored with the sight of Dean hugging his pillow to his chest, but his eyes are drawn to the matching band on Dean’s hand, and it makes his stomach twist again.

“Dean,” Roman says, loud and gruff, pulling at Dean’s leg when he makes no sign of moving. “Dean, fuckin’ wake up.”

“What, Roman?” Dean sounds pissed off, and his eyes are blue ice when he opens them.

Too fucking bad.

“What did we do last night?” Roman asks, lowering his voice. He’s terrified of the answer, especially with the matching rings on their fingers.

Dean sits up, blankets pooling around his waist. He looks better than Roman feels, and Roman’s envious of that, the way alcohol seems to have no lasting effect on Dean.

Roman tries to keep his breathing calm and even as Dean purses his lips, presumably trying to recall what happened, and it’s like a sinking stone in the pit of Roman’s stomach when Dean shrugs his shoulders, says, “Fuck, I dunno, man.”

That’s really—that’s really not helpful at all.

Roman blows out a slow, frustrated breath, says, “Dean, look at your hand.”

Dean pales when he looks down, and Roman would be offended if this were any other situation. No, scratch that, Roman is still offended.

“Don’t mean anything,” Dean says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

Their phones choose that moment to go off, loud and shrill in unison, and it makes Roman’s head throb sharply. He needs about a million aspirin, a well of water, and a restaurant’s worth of greasy food, stat.

“The fuck are the phones?” Dean asks, and Roman shrugs in response. He doesn’t remember anything from last night, and Dean expects him to know where their phones are?

Dean finds them a few minutes later—minutes that Roman spends standing in place, willing his stomach to stay calm—and his eyes widen as he tosses Roman his.

Roman understands why immediately, the screen displaying over a dozen missed calls, voicemails, text messages, and his stomach drops somewhere to his feet as he unlocks his phone, tapping open the messaging app.

There are messages from Seth, Stephanie, Triple H, Vince, Jimmy, Jey, his parents, and his hands are shaking as he opens each one, swallowing roughly as his eyes flit across the screen.

“What the fuck did we do.” Dean’s voice is loud, harsh, disbelieving, and it pulls Roman’s eyes away from his phone, over to where Dean’s sitting on the bed, and he’d really like to know the answer to that, too.

“Guess we got married.”

\--

Roman rushes through his shower, water just this side of freezing as he scrubs himself clean, feeling more together by the time he’s dressed.

Dean is silent, won’t look at him, won’t talk to him, and it makes Roman’s stomach twist for an entirely different reason.

They’re married. _Married_.

It’s not that Roman’s never thought about it before, but it wasn’t in any of his plans for the near future. They’re in their prime right now, owning the wrestling world, and settling down in a way that would alert the public to the nature of their real relationship wasn’t in the cards anytime soon.

He loves Dean, unabashed and unreserved, and he wants—wanted—to marry Dean one day, wanted to stand in front of friends and family and promise the rest of their lives to each other, but now that’s all gone, taken away by a drunken night neither of them can remember.

“We need to get to the arena,” Dean says, flat, monotone, wet hair dripping in little splotches on his shirt. Roman hadn’t realized Dean used the other bathroom to shower. “Vince and Stephanie want to see us.”

Roman nods, throat dry.

Figures that the one day Vince and Stephanie aren’t immediately in the next city for Raw is the one day Roman’s life is in utter turmoil.

What are they going to do? How is this going to look? Last night he, Dean, and Seth were fighting each other for the biggest championship in their company, and now two of them are married.

And that’s not even touching on the sexuality topic. How many people are still going to stand behind them? Or Dean, in any case. Roman knows he’s not a fan favorite, that they probably couldn’t care less about what he does, but he doesn’t want Dean’s reputation tarnished because of him. The crowd, the fans, they fucking love Dean, championing behind him, and Roman knows they wouldn’t blink an eye if Roman were to never step foot inside the ring again.

“Ready to go?” Dean asks, and Roman realizes Dean is fully dressed, phone clenched tight in his fist, and he's still sitting there, barefoot, hair wrapped in a towel.

“Gimme a minute.”

Dean nods and disappears out of the bedroom, footsteps retreating down the hall. Roman pulls in a deep breath, rising to his feet, pulling the towel out of his hair and throwing it to the floor, sweeping his hair back into a bun on the top of his head.

The contents of his bag are spilled over the floor of the bedroom, and he doesn’t even think twice before shoving it all inside, tossing it out of the way so he can sit down and pull on a pair of socks and shoes.

Dean’s waiting by the door when Roman makes his way downstairs, and he’s silent as he makes his way outside, leaving Roman to follow behind him.

Roman hates this so fucking much. Dean has never shut him out like this before, not in all the years they’ve known each other, the years they’ve been together, and it hurts, stings, makes Roman question and doubt everything.

He throws himself into the front seat of Dean’s truck, pulling his seatbelt over him and staring straight ahead, unsure of what to say, where to even start. He busies himself with his phone instead, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s going to tell his parents, his cousins, and he has no more of an answer when they arrive at the arena than he did when they left Dean’s house.

He shoves his phone into his pocket as he exits Dean’s truck, and it feels like there’s an ocean between them as they make their way inside, navigating through the backstage area until they find the room that Vince has claimed as his temporary office.

Roman isn’t sure his stomach is going to make it through this meeting, but he steels his nerves as best as he can, following behind Dean when Vince tells them to come in.

The room is small, smaller than Roman would’ve figured Vince would be using, a long table placed in the center of it, chairs scattered around it, and Vince is sitting in the middle, Stephanie to his side, and they don’t look happy, faces pinched in an almost identical way, and Roman would find it amusing on any other day how scarily alike they look.

“Gentleman, please sit,” Vince says, and his voice is so powerful, so authoritative Roman’s moving before he even realizes it, pulling out a chair opposite Vince and Stephanie, dropping down into it with a weary sigh.

Dean is much more reserved in his movements, and it’s almost a full minute later before he’s sitting next to Roman, drumming his fingers impatiently against the tabletop.

“I’m sure you’re both well aware of why we’ve called you in,” Vince says, and Roman swallows, nods, sees Dean do the same out of the corner of his eye. “What I want to know is what in the hell you were thinking.”

“Well, you see—“

“Got drunk, got married, here we are,” Dean says, cutting Roman off. “Really no thought to it.”

No point in trying to pretend it’s anything but what it really is, Roman supposes.

“So,” Stephanie says, folding her hands together, “you didn’t mean for it to happen?”

Roman just sits back and lets Dean do all the talking, since he seems so intent on detaching himself from Roman entirely.

“Nope,” Dean says. “Celebrated a little too much last night, if y’know what I mean, and ended up doing some shit we never would have otherwise.”

That hurts, a lot, and what makes it worse is that Roman doesn’t know if Dean’s telling the truth, if that’s how he really feels, or if they’re words simply meant to smooth the situation over, a way to placate Vince and Stephanie.

“Be that as it may,” Vince says, “you’ve put yourselves in quite the situation.”

Yeah, Roman’s well aware of that fact. It’s all over the internet, and social media sites are eating it up like they’re starved for new gossip. Guesses he can understand that; it’s not every day two of the top wrestlers in the business come out, or end up married to each other.

“It’s not a problem,” Dean says, and Roman’s attention snaps to him, knows he’s not going to like the words coming out of Dean’s mouth. “We’ll get it annulled.”

Roman needs to get out of here, needs to put some space between them, but Stephanie’s eyes are moving rapidly between them, and Roman knows he can’t move, can’t leave, not yet, maybe not anytime soon.

“I think that would just make the situation worse,” Stephanie says, and Roman doesn’t like the look of pity in her eyes every time they land on him.

“What do you mean worse?” Dean asks, looks like he’s about to leap out of his seat.

“We can’t have two of our top stars going out, getting drunk, and making a spectacle of themselves plastered all over the internet and news sites,” Stephanie replies, sounds like she’s talking to a child with the tone of her voice, sickeningly patronizing.

“What do you propose we do?” Roman asks, almost shrinks under the weight of all the eyes on him, but he sits up straight, holding his ground. Whatever they need to do to fix this, to make this right in the eyes of the McMahons, the public, he’ll do it, even if it means he loses Dean in the process.

They’re too public of figures to go and do what they did last night and expect to get away with it, sweep it under the rug like it never happened, like this is a fairytale and a wave of a wand will make it so that it was just a bad dream.

Stephanie slides over a sheet of paper, perfectly manicured nail tapping the top of it. “Business as usual tonight. No talking to the media, no saying anything to anyone. Tomorrow, you’ll start a circuit of interviews with different news sites and talk shows, and all the times and locations are here for you.”

“You can’t make me do this,” Dean says, and Roman knows that tone, knows that it’ll only take a few more seconds before Dean’s at his wits end, but there’s nothing Roman can do to stop it this time, not when he’s such a huge part of the problem.

“We can, and we are,” Vince says, and for all that Dean shirks any kind of authority figure, he shrinks under the power of Vince’s voice.

“You just became the top champion of this company, Dean, and Roman was just the champion,” Stephanie says. “You cannot expect a drunken mistake that’s already this public to go unmentioned, and expect not to face the repercussions. That’s just not how this works. You have to realize the position you’re in and the power you hold wearing that belt. We cannot allow you to go out there and say it was a mistake, that you had a little too much to drink and didn’t mean for it to happen. People have been fighting for years for marriage equality, and I will not have you making a mockery of it. Now, you can do what we’re asking, or you can be stripped of your title and suspended.”

Roman winces at the sharp sound of Dean’s chair scraping across the floor, and it brings his headache back to the forefront of his mind, an aching, pounding roar that makes him wince.

“This is fuckin’ bullshit,” Dean says, sound of his boots stomping away, and Roman sits there, staring down at the table, willing the impending tears away.

“I’m sorry, Roman.” Stephanie sounds apologetic, and when Roman brings himself to look up at her, she’s frowning, and it makes him feel worse.

“Things happen, right?” Roman forces a smile, shaking his head. “Thanks for doing what you can to help.”

Roman rises to his feet, feeling years older, infinitely more exhausted than when he woke up. He shakes hands with Vince, with Stephanie, taking the sheet of paper from the table and folding it into a square, shoving it into his back pocket.

The halls are still mostly deserted, and Roman only comes across a few arena employees a couple of times as he turns corners and walks through the building, back out to where they came in. His heart beats slow and heavy in his chest at the sight of Dean leaning against his truck, and he forces himself to move, to close the distance between them so they can talk about this.

Dean isn’t having any of it, it seems, holding a hand up and shaking his head.

Roman’s entire body droops, feels like he has a ten-thousand-pound weight strapped to his shoulders.

The drive back to Dean’s house is quiet, tension so thick Roman’s suffocating with it, and it’s a welcome relief to pull up to the familiar residence, even if Dean all but runs away the moment the car is parked and off.

Roman’s much more sedate in his movements, doesn’t want to have the discussion they so obviously need to have, knows that it’ll put the nail in the coffin of them being together if the way Dean has been acting is any indication.

Dean is sitting on the sofa in the living room when Roman finally gets inside, and the sight of him hunched over, head in his hands, makes Roman’s eyes sting, his heart ache. He clears his throat, trying to muster a smile at the blank expression Dean gives him.

“Is this really the worst thing?” Roman finds himself asking, the words flying out of his mouth without his permission.

Dean shakes his head, eyes darting everywhere, and Roman so badly wants to go over and touch him, but he knows it’s probably the worst thing he could do right now.

“How did we even let this happen?” Dean asks instead, and Roman can’t give him an answer, memories just as blank and black as they were when he woke up.

“It’s not a big deal, Dean,” Roman tries, knows the words are nothing but a lie even as he says them, but he doesn’t know what else to say to make this better—if that’s even possible.

“Not a big deal?” Dean’s voice is rising, face turning red, and Roman realizes instantly that that was the wrong thing to say. “We’re married, Roman! Married and everyone and their goddamn mother knows about it.”

Roman swallows roughly. “Still not seein’ what’s so wrong with that.” In for a penny, in for a pound.

Dean shakes his head again, an ugly, wry laughter falling from his lips. “Yeah, you wouldn’t.”

Roman’s hackles rise, and he’s digging his fingers into the meat of his thigh, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“I never wanted to get married.” Dean’s voice is sharp, like a knife to the gut. “It’s a huge deal to me that apparently I got drunk enough to throw that out the window and go ahead and do it, anyway!”

There’s a lump in Roman’s throat, and it hurts to swallow. “Oh,” he says, forcing it out. He wants to wrap his arms around himself, wants to crawl into a bed and not move until the weight on his chest feels like it's not going to crush him every time he tries to breathe.

“You can’t seriously say you wanted to marry me, Roman,” Dean says, and it burns, it stings, that Dean didn’t think Roman would want to tie himself to Dean forever, inexplicably.

“Yeah,” Roman says, sharp, sarcastic laugh, sounds like he’s about to fall apart, “why would I ever want to do that?”

“Roman, c’mon,” Dean says, but Roman can’t do this anymore, can’t be here, can’t hear anymore.

“No, Dean, it’s fine.” It’s not, it’s really, really not, but Roman can fake it if he has to, if only for the time being. “We were apparently wasting our time here.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, sharpen. “That all this fuckin’ was to you? ‘Wastin’ our time?’”

Roman sighs, shakes his head. “Don’t be a dumbass, man. You know it wasn’t,” he says. “But marriage was never something you wanted, and I can see how much it’s killing you to wear that damn ring, the ring that, drunken mistake or not, says that I love you and I will until we die, that says you belong to me, that I belong to you, no matter what happens.”

“I don’t need a goddamn ring or a piece of paper to tell me that,” Dean says, flushing in his anger and frustration. “I never needed that. I never wanted that. I was happy with how things were, knowing that you were there and had my back, but now this—this fucking ring ruined it all and I have to act like it’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”

“Yeah.” Roman sucks in a breath, focuses on the way his chest expands and contracts. “I’m gonna grab my things, get a car and drive to Phoenix on my own.”

“What? Why?”

Roman laughs, though he doesn’t find anything about this humorous, rubbing a hand over his tired face. “I can’t“—he stops, pauses—“marrying you was always endgame for me, Dean, when we were done wrestling and ready to hang it up. You don’t“—his throat closes around the words and he has to stop again, has to force himself to breathe and not let his voice break—“you don’t want that, and I can’t, I can’t be here right now knowing that that’s something you’re never gonna want with me.”

Dean looks like he’s barely holding himself together, and it’s tearing Roman apart.

“That don’t mean I don’t wanna spend the rest of my life with you, Roman.” Dean’s voice is soft now, and if he were anyone else, Roman would say it sounds like he’s pleading, pleading for Roman to stay, but that’s not something Dean would do, too prideful and stubborn for that.

“I know,” Roman says, and he does, logically, know that Dean wants to be with him for as long as he can, has heard Dean say as much on nights Dean thought he was sleeping, but it doesn’t feel the same now, knowing marriage isn’t going to happen in a way Roman wants.

He doesn’t know why he’s so hung up on it, so fixated on it, but marriage is something he’s always wanted, never dreamed of actually having until he met Dean, until it became legal for him, and he thought Dean wanted the same, but he guesses that’s his stupidity for never asking, for never broaching the topic before he got in too deep.

The house is silent as he makes his way to Dean’s bedroom, the room they’ve shared for so many nights, the room that feels like home, and it’s an ache in his heart, a knife in the gut, packing the rest of his things into his suitcases and bags, looking over the mussed sheets on the bed for what feels like the final time.

Dean is still where he left him, and it feels like he’s leaving a part of himself as he shoulders his bags, hand on the doorknob as he takes a breath and steps out into the warm summer air.

“Ro, c’mon,” Dean says, but the door clicks shut, and Roman’s just too tired to turn back right now.

He calls for a cab and waits at the curb for it to come, and it feels so wrong to be renting a car on his own, and it only gets worse when he turns to the front seat, only for it to be empty.

There are too many hours between Vegas and Phoenix, and the long drive gives him too much time to think, too much time stuck in his own head, and it was only a matter of time before the tears started to fall, silent, gut-wrenching sobs that are wracking his frame now, blurring his vision and the road in front of him, but he’s been holding it in for what feels like years, and if he has to get through this day at all, he needs to let it all out now.

What should’ve been one of the greatest nights of Dean’s life, ruined by too much alcohol and no memories, and Roman’s lost it all: his title, Dean, his hopes for their future, and it’s the bitterest of pills to swallow.

It’s not that he doesn’t still want to be with Dean, because he does, wants nothing more for the rest of his life, but Roman wants to be able to call Dean his husband, wants the world to know that Dean is his, that they’re in it together for life, that if anything were to happen, neither of them would be denied access to the other because of bullshit hospital legalities.

It burns like an angry fire in his veins that Dean doesn’t want any of that, and it shouldn’t even be that big of a deal. Dean wants to be with him, and it’s a forever thing for him, too, but he’s stuck, tripping over Dean acting like being married to him is the worst thing that could have ever happened to him.

While he’s not exactly thrilled about how it happened, it’s not the death curse Dean is making it out to be, and he can’t even enjoy that they’re married, that Dean is his husband, because it’s made Dean so goddamn unhappy, made them both unhappy, even if it’s for different reasons.

That broken, shattered look on Dean’s face is all he can see, lingers in his mind all the way to Phoenix, long after his tears have dried, and he has just enough time to check into a hotel for the night before he drives to the arena, the bag with his gear slung over his shoulder as he makes his way inside.

He keeps his shoulders straight, his head up, ignores the looks everyone is giving him. If they want to say something to him, they can say it to his face, otherwise he doesn’t give a shit right now what they think. There are infinitely more important things he has to worry about, and none of them are even on his radar right now.

He finds an empty room, away from the rest of the roster, and throws his bag down on the floor, dropping down into the nearest chair, cradling his head in his hands.

How did his life turn into such a mess?

Roman pulls his phone out of his pocket, grimacing at the amount of missed calls he has. He still doesn’t know what to tell his parents, can’t exactly tell them the truth when he has to go out and do interviews, saying the complete opposite.

He shoves his phone into his bag, changes into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, runs laps around the arena until his lungs burn, his sides ache, and all he can focus on is taking one breath after another, sweat soaking his shirt to his skin. He slows his pace as he walks back to his makeshift dressing room, and he searches the halls with his bag slung over his shoulder, in dire need of a shower as the sweat cools, dries.

The room Roman has claimed for himself is occupied when he gets back to it, freshly showered and in his ring gear, and he groans when he sees the familiar bags and suitcases that belong to Seth.

As much animosity that’s there between them in the ring, when it comes to being on top, they’ve learned to keep their personal affairs separate from that, and they’re cordial when they do speak, but Seth isn’t a person he wants to see or speak to right now.

He’s too tired to find a different room, however, so he throws his bag down on the floor again, settles down in the chair furthest from where Seth’s stuff is.

And he regrets that decision the moment Seth walks through the door.

“Where’s your husband?” Seth doesn’t sound mocking, or malicious, sounds genuinely curious.

Roman shrugs. He doesn’t know. Hopefully almost to Phoenix. “Should be here soon,” he says, pastes on a smile.

Seth grabs a chair and turns it around, straddles it as he faces Roman. “Man,” he says, whistles. “Can’t believe you actually got Ambrose to marry you.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Roman asks. It twists something sharp in his gut to realize that maybe Seth knew the whole time Dean never wanted to get married.

Seth laughs, and this time, his voice sounds mocking, patronizing. “Ambrose was adamant that he never wanted to get married. Said he didn’t believe in a piece of paper defining what someone meant to him or something, I dunno. Good thing he changed his mind, huh?”

Roman nods, numb. How did Seth know? How could Seth not have told him? How could Dean not have told him? He was the only one in the dark, apparently, and it makes bile burn in his throat, bitter, stinging, but he forces it down, pushes out a laugh he doesn’t feel, says, “Got pretty lucky,” feeling anything but.

Seth snorts, tries to cover it up with a laugh that Roman sees right through. “Yeah, I bet.”

Roman lets the subject drop, doesn’t feel like talking about it any further, and especially not with Seth, not right now, or ever, really.

There’s not much time left before they’re set to go live, and as much as Roman loves wrestling, he’s not feeling it tonight, not with his hangover still lingering, and especially not with the long day he’s already had.

He kills the remaining time by digging through his bag for his phone, hoping to find a missed call, a text, anything from Dean, but there’s nothing, only another handful of missed calls from his mom and dad. He stifles his groan, doesn’t want Seth poking or prodding at the sore bruise that his life has become.

The sound of the clock on the wall ticking off every second sounds loud to Roman’s ears, and he’s grateful for Seth’s rapid departure when the hour hand ticks over, signaling the start of the show.

He's slower to leave the room, feels like his feet are encased in cement blocks with how much energy every step takes, and he makes it to a backstage monitor just in time to see Dean pull up to the arena in a cab, looking like it’s any other day, glint of silver no longer on his finger.

It makes something ugly twist in Roman’s gut, and he stares down at the ring on his own finger, twisting it around and around before he removes it, slipping it into the pocket of his pants.

Just another day.

\--

And it goes just like any other day, like there isn’t a marriage certificate with his and Dean’s names on it sitting on the dresser in Dean’s bedroom, like his wedding ring isn’t burning a hole in his pocket, like his heart doesn’t feel like it’s sitting somewhere around his feet with the way it feels like there are a million miles between him and Dean, up until it isn’t like any other day.

He remembers the end of the match with Seth, remembers the double count out, Dean sliding into the ring, but after that it’s all blank, another gaping hole in his memory, and it hurts to move, hurts to sit up, the world spinning sickeningly around him, his head feeling like it’s about to split in two.

He tries to get to his feet, but none of his limbs are cooperating, his stomach protesting, and there’s a referee at his side, a medic, and he can hear them even though he can’t understand them, sounds garbled and far away.

They help him to his feet, his arms slung over their shoulders, and it feels like he’s going to drag them down, stumbling over every step he forces his body to take.

The trainers and medical staff are on him the moment he gets backstage, and he wants to yell, wants to push them all away, but his arms are flopping uselessly at his side, his voice a slur of words that make no sense.

It takes a minute before things start sharpening, clearing, and he hears _concussion_ , _probably can’t compete_ , _further testing needed_ , and his head aches, throbs, trying to remember what the hell happened.

He's had concussions before, hard not to when you come from a football background, but they’ve never felt like this, never felt like someone left an axe splitting his head wide open.

“The ambo here is gonna take you to the emergency room, Roman. Is there anyone who can get your things and meet you there?”

The words process slowly, but when they do, Roman shakes his head—tries to, anyway—before he croaks out a ‘no’ that makes his chest ache.

He doesn’t know where Dean is, doesn’t know if Dean has left already, and Seth is out of the question. That’d open a whole can of worms Roman doesn’t think his head could stand to take.

An ambulance ride and two hours later, Roman’s laying in a hospital bed, sheets scratchy against his skin, waiting for the results of the million and one tests. He’s without his phone, without a change of clothes, and he just really needs this day to end.

There’s a ruckus down the hall that draws Roman’s attention, but the sounds are still too far away for Roman to make them out, and it’s not until they come nearer that he can make out the distinct rasp of Dean’s voice, the low, menacing pitch to it.

“I’ve told you, sir, you cannot go back there.” The voice is feminine, stern, tired, like she’s repeated herself more times than she’d cared to, coming close to the end of her rope.

“And I’ve told you, ma’am, that I can.” Sharp, irritated, mocking. “He’s my goddamn husband.”

Oh, how that sets Roman on edge, a flurry of something he refuses to acknowledge bubbling in his stomach.

“Why didn’t you just say that, then?” Exasperated. Poor nurse. She certainly wasn’t expecting anything like Dean Ambrose to blow through her department tonight, Roman’s certain of that.

“I wasn’t aware that I needed to.” A sneer, no doubt, eyes narrowed. Roman loves that he knows the expressions on Dean’s face simply by what his voice sounds like. “I told you he’s my partner, ain’t that good enough?”

_No, Dean, it’s not_.

Dean flings back the curtain of his room before the nurse has a chance to answer. He looks—he looks tired, exhausted, purple stains smudged beneath his eyes.

“You that pissed at me you weren’t gonna tell me they had to bring you to the ER?” Dean asks, pacing the length of the room.

Roman tries to keep his eyes on Dean, but the speed he’s moving at makes Roman’s eyes water and blur. “Phone’s in my bag at the arena,” he says.

“Oh.” Dean stops his pacing, pulls a chair in front of the bed and drops down into it, a puppet with its strings cut.

“What happened?” Roman asks, ignores the way his voice cracks.

“You blacked out?” Dean’s eyes are darting all over the room, skipping right over Roman, and it unsettles him.

Roman nods once, all his head will allow.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. “Botched a move,” he says, simple, detached.

Roman raises an eyebrow. He knows he didn’t, not during the match, remembers the finish of it clearly.

“Not you,” Dean says. “Or maybe partly you, I dunno.”

“That’s not really tellin’ me what happened, Dean.”

“I got you with Dirty Deeds, didn’t realize how bad the delivery was ‘til I watched it back, saw how your head hit the mat. I tried to find you after they helped you outta the ring, but it took goddamn forever for anyone to tell me they brought you to the damn hospital,” Dean explains, jaw clenched by the end of it. “Fuckin’ bullshit.”

Christ.

Roman shouldn’t even be anywhere near a ring right now if he can’t focus enough when Dean’s in it with him; he’s lucky it’s just a concussion this time and not a fucking broken neck.

Fuck.

He’s so pissed at himself, for letting this whole debacle get in the way of his concentration, his focus. He’s never done that before, never let what’s happening in his personal life get in the way of what he’s doing in the ring, and it makes him feel like an amateur, a wannabe, stepping foot somewhere he shouldn’t be.

”Shit happens, Dean,” Roman says softly. No point in Dean beating himself up, berating himself, for something when it’s mostly Roman’s fault. It’s not like Dean was purposely trying to hurt him. No matter what’s going on between them, Dean would never, ever resort to violence.

”Yeah,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and Roman is just too tired for this right now.

The room falls into silence, thick, stifling, awkward, and Roman hates it, hates that instead of Dean sitting right next to him, a hand massaging the back of his neck, Dean is sitting in a chair away from him, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else, fingertips tapping out a soundless rhythm against his thigh.

How are they going to come back from this marriage thing? Are they even going to be able to, or is that it for their relationship?

It makes Roman’s heart ache, his stomach twisting painfully. Letting Dean go is the last thing he wants to do, but he doesn’t know if he can hang onto him, either.

The doctor comes and goes, and a nurse comes in to give Roman his discharge instructions, and he changes back into his ring gear when she leaves, the only clothing he has on him. The ring is still in the front pocket and he doesn’t think twice about slipping it on, ignoring the look on Dean’s face at the sight of it on his finger.

It feels right, the ring, a comforting weight on his finger.

”So,” Dean says, “what are you gonna do?”

Roman purses his lips, furrows his brows. “Do? About what?”

Dean looks exasperated, frustrated. “You can’t wrestle for two, three weeks, maybe a month. You going home, or?”

Roman shakes his head, regrets it when the world spins, his head throbs. “Can’t go home,” he says, puling in a deep, calming breath. “Still got all those interviews and shit Steph set up. Can’t just not do them.”

And where is home for him now, anyway? Back in Pensacola? In Vegas with Dean?

He hasn’t actually been back to Florida in months, choosing to stay with Dean in Vegas whenever they have time off. Dean’s house is home, but what’s more, _Dean_ is home.

”Nosy ass people don’t need to know shit about our lives,” Dean says, menacing growl to his words.

”Yeah, well, when you’re an idiot and seem to think it’s a good idea to get married in Vegas when you’re so goddamn drunk you don’t even remember it, you gotta deal with the repercussions.”

”Don’t try to put that on me,” Dean says, shaking his head. “Drunk or not, I wouldn’t have ever suggested that.”

”But you sure as fuck agreed to it,” Roman says, forcing the words out through the clench of his teeth.

Dean doesn’t say anything to that, and instead of feeling victorious, Roman just feels hollow, numb, empty.

Roman huffs out a breath, says, “Whatever, man, just take me back to the arena so I can grab my shit and get my rental.”

Dean laughs, dry and sarcastic. “You’re in no shape to drive.”

Roman’s well aware of that fact, but he’s willing to take his chances, especially if it means getting away from the stifling, choking air that seems to pervade every interaction he and Dean have.

The miserable, aching look on Dean’s face makes him change his mind, however, and whatever issues they’re having right now, Roman is still helplessly, hopelessly in love with Dean, and he always will be, and if he can give Dean some semblance of piece and calm, Roman will swallow down every bit of awkwardness and do it.

\--

The first interview sucks, and the second isn’t much better, and by the third, he’s just over it all. Having to paste on a smile and sit squished next to Dean like everything is perfect, like they’re happy like all other newlyweds, it quickly wears on Roman, zaps the small amount of energy he has, and he hates it, hates it so goddamn much.

The thing is, Roman sucks at lying. It’s just a fact of life; the sky is blue, grass is green, water is wet, and Roman’s a terrible liar. What’s more is that he hates it, hates how it makes him feel, sick and wrong and like his skin is stretched too tight.

He doesn’t know how the interviewers didn’t see right through the words falling out of his mouth, didn’t call him out on every hollow lie he told, the stiff, awkward way he was holding himself, as much distance between him and Dean as they could manage on the small sofa they were seated in, the way his smiles were forced, fake.

Dean sold it like a fucking champ, the way he does everything else, and it’s a scary thing, how fucking great Dean is at lying, and it makes Roman’s stomach turn, his chest ache, hearing all those words he dreamed of hearing and knowing they’re nothing but lies, falsehoods, a fabrication to cover a monumental screw up.

They’re back at the hotel now, a room with two beds instead of one, somewhere between one city and the next. Roman’s not entirely sure where they are, hasn’t been paying attention to exit and city limit signs. It doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. They’re getting to wherever they need to be, and that suits Roman just fine.

”Are you hungry?” Dean asks from where he’s laying on the other bed, drumming his fingers restlessly against his stomach.

Roman shakes his head, says, “Not really,” stomach churning at the thought of food.

The sound of bedsprings squeaking, bare feet moving across carpet, added weight to his bed jostling him slightly, hand moving down the center of his back making him suppress a shiver. “You gotta eat, Ro.”

Roman knows, but the thought of food makes him queasy. The lying, the faking, the stress of the situation, and eating food is the last thing Roman wants to do. “Not hungry,” he says, feeling worse at the frustrated sigh Dean lets out.

”Why are you being like this?”

Roman moves, dislodges Dean’s hand from where it’s settled on the middle of his back, rolling up and off the bed. 

”Why am I being like this?” Roman asks, scoffs. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging, sharp pinpricks of pain keeping him grounded in the here and now.

”Yes,” Dean says, growls. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Why aren’t you happier about it?”

”Because it’s making you miserable!” Roman shouts, and he takes a breath, another, another, lowers his voice so he’s not yelling anymore. “You don’t want this, Dean, and you’re miserable. Only reason it’s even happening is because we can’t annul it. This ain’t how I wanted this. You look at that ring like it’s a goddamn bomb just waiting to go off, not like you actually want it there. And it’s because you don’t. You don’t want any of this, and you’re going to end up hating me and resenting me by the time this fucking circus is over.”

Dean’s arms are crossed over his chest, expression closed off, and Roman hates this so goddamn much. Dean has never felt so far from him.

”I don’t see what difference the ring makes,” Dean says, a muttered whisper of words said under his breath. “Anyway. It’s done and over. We’re married. No changing it. Why can’t we just move on from it and be how we were?”

”Because it ain’t that simple, Dean,” Roman says, shaking his head. He wishes it were, but it’s not. They can’t be how they were before, not with the cloud of marriage hanging over them, a reminder everywhere they turn that Dean is his husband, that they’re married, and he can’t—they can’t—move forward with Dean hating everything about it.

”It could be if you’d just let it.”

Roman scoffs, can’t help it, a knee-jerk reaction. “If I’d just let it?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “I ain’t the one who’s got a problem with being married, Dean. I always wanted to marry you, man. And you wanna ignore that, wanna act and pretend like it ain’t there, but it is.”

Dean’s fingers start tapping out a soundless rhythm against his collarbone, a nervous, frustrated tic that Roman’s always found endearing. “Because I don’t see the point of it,” Dean says with a shake of his head. “Married or not, that doesn’t change shit. It doesn’t change what you mean to me, it doesn’t change who we are. It’s a goddamn piece of paper and a ring around my finger that I’ll probably end up misplacing half a dozen times.”

Roman smiles a little at that, silently agreeing. Yeah, Dean’s the kind of person who’d take it off and forget to put it back on, ransacking everything in his path to find it, just to lose it again the next night.

He sobers again in a minute, pondering Dean’s words. “So why is it such a big deal, then? Why are you so against it?”

Roman falls back down onto the bed, holds his head in his hands, pressing the tips of his fingers against his eyes. There’s a pressure against his knees and he looks up, finds Dean squatting in front of him, broad hands covering Roman’s knees.

”Why do you wanna marry me so bad, huh?” Dean asks, blue eyes searching his face.

Roman cups his hand around the curve of Dean’s jaw, brushes his thumb against the stubble there. “Is it so hard to believe that I just want to spend the rest of my life with you?” he asks, follows Dean’s eyes until they meet his, all the air sucked out of the room at the raw emotion displayed in them.

Dean blinks and it’s gone. He licks his lips, swallows. “Why?” he asks, low and raspy.

Roman chuckles, leans in and rests his forehead against Dean’s. “Because I love you, you idiot.”

”Why?” Dean asks again, and it makes Roman pause, makes him blink in confusion, pulling back to look at Dean with a furrowed brow.

”What are you—what do you mean why?” Roman’s mouth feels dry, heart like a stampede of horses. He doesn’t—he’s not sure what Dean’s asking, why Dean’s asking, and it makes something uncertain and terrified unfurl in his belly.

Dean licks his lips again, Roman’s eyes pulled to the movement before flickering back up to Dean’s eyes. “I mean, why do you wanna spend your life with me, huh? Why do you want to tie yourself to me in a way that can only be undone through lawyers and courts and other messy bullshit? Why would you do that to yourself? Especially for someone like me.”

Roman wants to lash out, wants to push Dean away and stalk the length of the room, put his fist through a wall, anything to get away from the way his skin is buzzing, the way his head is spinning, bile burning the back of his throat.

He’d thought they’d gotten over this, thought they’d moved past it when their relationship moved from platonic to romantic, when Dean was still full of doubts and self-loathing, so sure he didn’t deserve anything Roman was offering, was willing to give, and it makes Roman so goddamn angry to know that even after the years that have gone by, everything they’ve been through together, that Dean has been silently stewing in those same doubts, that same self-loathing.

”Someone like you?” Roman asks, throat tight. “There’s nothin’ wrong with you, Dean, you hear me? Nothin’, and there’s no goddamn reason why I wouldn’t want to tie myself to you for the rest of our lives.”

Dean looks away then, eyes closed. “You’re too good, Ro,” he says, whispers. “Could do so much better than me.”

Roman swallows roughly. “Look at me,” he says, ignores the crack of his voice, the tremble that’s there. “I’ve told you that I don’t care about your past or any of that shit you did before I knew you. That don’t matter to me. Know why?” Dean shakes his head. “’Cause that shit, it all made you who you are today, and who you are today, that’s the man I fell in love with, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. You are the only one I want, you hear me?”

Dean nods, a jerky rock of his head. “Still don’t know about this marriage thing.”

Roman laughs, feels infinitely lighter when he says, “C’mon, don’t tell me you ain’t tryna be a Reigns.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Dean Reigns? Sounds so stupid.”

”No, no,” Roman says, shaking his head. “Dean Reigns sounds fuckin’ awesome. I mean, Dean reigns supreme? C’mon!”

”You’re so fuckin’ cheesy, what the fuck, dude.” Dean pushes Roman back, and Roman falls easily, pulls Dean back with him.

He settles one hand at Dean’s waist, smooths the other up and down the line of Dean’s back. “You gonna do this with me?” he asks, keeping his voice soft, low. “Gonna be married to me?”

Dean still looks apprehensive, like it’s not something he’s sure he wants—though he doesn’t look downright terrified and repulsed by the idea anymore—but he nods, a nervous, trembling smile lifting the corners of his lips. “Ain’t my fault if I suck at it.”

”I got somethin’ you can suck right here,” Roman says, smirks, rolls his hips up into Dean’s. It’s been almost a week since the last time he and Dean touched, and he didn’t think they’d ever be here again, that he’d ever have this again.

Dean looks down at him, mouth set in a straight line. “Fuckin’ cheesy ass, what is wrong with you.”

”Hey,” Roman says, squeezes Dean’s hip, tone light and cheerful, “can’t a guy be a little excited about havin’ sex with his husband for the first time?”

Fuck, but that makes Roman’s blood run hot, arousal pooling slow and thick in his belly. First time having sex with Dean, his husband, who is agreeing to be married to him, who isn’t bolting and doing everything he can to get away as fast as he can.

”You seem awfully sure of yourself,” Dean says, hands planted firmly on Roman’s chest as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, ass pressed firmly to Roman’s dick.

”Only thing I’m sure of is you,” Roman says, and, yeah, even he can admit that was cheesy as all fuck, but it’s the one certainty he knows, trusts, believes in.

Dean doesn’t say anything in response, but his face softens, his hands moving in slow circles over Roman’s chest, down his stomach, back up to his neck, fingers pressed to his pulse point there, and Roman knows Dean can feel how fast his heart is beating, the rapid fire racing of it thrumming beneath his touch.

Roman moves his hands to Dean’s front, toying with the hem of Dean’s shirt before he pushes it up, tracing the waistline of his jeans with the tip of his finger. Dean sucks in a quick breath, tiny waist getting even smaller.

It’s easy as anything to pull Dean down with a fist wrapped in his shirt, their mouths meeting effortlessly. Roman groans into it, his hands back at Dean’s hips, tongue peeking out to swipe over the soft swell of Dean’s bottom lip, and it gets better when Dean opens up to him, tongues sliding together wetly, Dean shifting and rocking against him.

He lets himself get lost in kissing Dean, the soft sounds he makes when Roman uses his teeth, the way Dean’s body shutters and jolts when Roman’s grip on his hips tightens, pulling Dean down tighter against his crotch, and he loves this, could do this for hours, Dean a warm, welcome weight on top of him, nothing existing but the tastetouchfeelsmell of Dean surrounding him.

Dean gets restless, though, shifting with purpose now, dragging the stiff line of his dick over Roman’s, and Roman pulls back to suck in a shuddered breath, flare of want and need coursing through his veins.

He flips them easily, a hand in the middle of Dean’s back until he’s hovering over him, a smirk playing at his lips at the startled look on Dean’s face. He kisses it away, a quick press of lips, then he’s moving down, nipping at the curve of Dean’s jaw, down the line of his neck, a wet swipe of his tongue over the line of Dean’s collarbone.

Dean pushes him away for a moment to remove his shirt, but then his hands are in Roman’s hair, tugging him back down, and Roman follows without hesitation, lips dragging along Dean’s chest, the hair there a slight tickle he ignores in favor of licking at Dean’s nipple, teeth closing around it to tug, and Dean hisses out a breath as he jolts, back bowing up, pressing his chest further into Roman’s face.

Roman hums deep in his throat, feels the vibration of it in his ribcage, and he plants a row of open-mouthed kisses along Dean’s chest to his other nipple, licking and biting at it until Dean is cursing him, pushing at his head to get him to move.

”Need somethin’?” Roman asks with a raise of his brow.

Dean raises up on his elbows, his own eyebrow lifted. “You said something about sucking, and I ain’t seeing much suckin’ going on.”

Roman sighs, all mock frustration. “I guess. Take off your damn pants.”

Dean nods, and his hands are working at the button of his jeans before Roman can even move, backing off the bed to remove his own clothing, t-shirt, shorts, and boxers left in a pool of fabric on the floor.

The sight Dean makes spread across the bed is one that will always make Roman’s mouth go dry, make his cock twitch and jerk, especially with the way Dean touches himself, tips of his fingers moving along his belly while the other hand is curled loosely around his cock, blue eyes eaten away by the blown-wide black of his pupils, flushed pink down to the middle of his chest.

It’s fucking breathtaking, mouthwatering, and Roman gets to have this for the rest of his life. How is he so fucking lucky?

”On your side,” Roman instructs, voice a low, deep growl.

Dean doesn’t ask any questions, rolls until he’s on his side, and Roman climbs back onto the bed then, moves until his hips are level with Dean’s mouth, Dean’s dick right in front of him.

They don’t do this often, but Roman loves it, loves feeling Dean in his mouth, hot, hard, heavy, while Dean’s mouth is on him, warm, tight suction, a feedback loop of pleasure between them, Roman working his lips and tongue and fist along the length of Dean’s dick, hips rocking into Dean’s face when he hums, a vibration that tingles from his dick to his balls, down to the soles of his feet.

Dean’s rocking his own hips, pushing his cock further into Roman’s mouth, and Roman grips Dean’s ass as best as he can, pulling him in even more, tips of his long fingers sliding between Dean’s asscheeks, a dry rub back and forth over the tight furl of his hole.

Dean pulls off Roman’s cock with a hard suck, a loud gasp before a warm breath of air floats over the heated skin of it, and Dean’s muttering, “Yeah, yeah, c’mon,” hips moving back and forth between Roman’s mouth and the dry touch of his fingers.

”Turn over,” Roman says, husky and hoarse from the press of Dean’s cock at the back of his throat, and he swats at Dean’s ass, a sharp smack that echoes in the room.

Roman rolls to the side as Dean situates himself on his forearms and knees, ass high in the air, head pillowed in the fold of his arms. The dip of Dean’s back is a beautiful thing, and Roman presses a kiss to the base of his spine, trails his lips lower to the cleft of Dean’s ass, big hands squeezing and separating his cheeks.

A jolt of Dean’s body at the first touch of Roman’s tongue, but then he’s rocking back against it in an instant, groaning deep in his chest as Roman works his mouth, wet, sloppy presses of his lips before he’s working his tongue in slow circles, around and around the rim with the pointed tip of it, following with thick, broad stripes that make Dean pant and moan, curses that Roman barely hears over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears.

There’s saliva dripping down Dean’s ass, Roman’s chin, and he only adds to the mess when he points his tongue and presses in, spit spilling out the corners of his mouth as he moves it in short, sharp jabs, trying to get in deeper, to open Dean wider, but the muscle is unyielding, tight as it’s ever been, and Roman swipes his fingers through the trail of saliva, Dean’s ass finally opening to the press of a single digit.

”Fuck, Roman, yeah,” Dean says, rocks back against him, takes Roman’s finger in as deep as it’ll go before he’s begging for more, Roman happily obliging, spitting quick and dirty at Dean’s asshole before he adds in another finger, presses them right up against Dean’s prostate to hear him choke on a moan.

Dean opens to his fingers so prettily, so easily, and Roman loves it, loves the sight of that tight little asshole swallowing his fingers greedily, over and over as Dean fucks himself on them, grabbing and pulling at the sheets, his hair, anything he can reach.

”C’mon, c’mon, I’m ready,” Dean says, pushes back against Roman’s fingers again, and Roman groans, can’t wait to feel the tight clench of Dean’s ass around him.

”Patience,” Roman says, smoothing a hand over the small of Dean’s back. “Lube still in your bag?”

”Of course it is,” Dean says, like it’s a stupid question to even be asking.

Roman smacks his ass again, a red mark blossoming immediately over the pale skin. He slips his fingers out of Dean’s ass, wiping them against the sheet before he walks over to where Dean’s bags are, cock swaying with every step. The lube is still in the side pocket where Dean’s always kept it, and Roman grabs it, doesn’t bother zipping the pocket back up, tube already opened by the time he gets back to the bed.

”C’mon, up,” Roman says, swats at Dean’s foot. “Wanna see you ride me.”

Dean scrambles up immediately and Roman takes his place, settling on his back before he slicks up his cock, hissing at the touch of his own hand.

”Ready?” Dean asks, holding his cock and stroking loosely.

Roman nods, licks his lips, settling his hands on Dean’s hips when he climbs on top. Dean reaches around his back, gripping Roman’s cock and slowly lowering himself onto it. Roman’s eyes squeeze shut at the feeling, all tight hot heat surrounding him, and it’s a close thing that he manages not to come right then, the sensation almost too much to bear.

Dean doesn’t give him a moment to breathe, plants his hands on Roman’s chest and starts moving, hips rocking back and forth as he works himself on Roman’s dick, his own cock swaying between them.

”Yeah, that’s it, baby,” Roman grits out, eyes open now, taking in the red flush of Dean’s skin, the gleam of sweat on it, the pink of Dean’s tongue poking out between his lips, and he starts fucking up into Dean’s ass, skin slapping against skin, Dean groaning and gasping as Roman slides across his prostate unerringly.

”Right there,” Dean pants, nails digging into the skin of Roman’s chest, and the little pinpricks of pain spur Roman on, make him thrust up harder, faster, Dean slamming down to meet his every thrust.

There’s nothing but the sound of their skin slapping together, the moans and grunts falling from their lips, and it’s the best thing Roman’s ever heard.

He wraps his arms around Dean’s back, pulling him down, and he can’t get as deep now, but he can kiss Dean, can press their lips together as his tongue moves in Dean’s mouth, licking and curling and tasting, stealing the breath right from his lungs.

The kiss doesn’t last long, but Dean’s lips are spit slick and swollen when he sits up again, and his hand is around his cock, stroking in earnest now, wet sound of his hand flying over it while their bodies rock together, Dean clenching down tight, tight, tighter, until he’s spilling wet and hot over his own fist, Roman’s belly, moaning deep and low as he trembles through it, Roman gasping and groaning at the way his cock feels like it’s being strangled, Dean so fucking tight around him there’s nothing he can do but come, wet pulses filling Dean’s ass until Roman’s so spent he doesn’t think he’d be able to move even if he were dragged away.

He’s covered in sweat, come, and his chest is heaving as he fights to catch his breath, Dean’s thighs quivering where they’re still around his hips, and he’s careful, so fucking careful as he helps Dean move, chuckling at the heated look Dean gives him at the come that trickles out of his ass when Roman’s soft cock slips out, like they didn’t just fuck two seconds ago, like they’re not spent and boneless and sated.

Dean flings his arms and legs out like a starfish once he’s settled on his back, and Roman pushes at the limbs closest to him, asks, “Where the hell am I supposed to lay, you goddamn bedhog?”

”Nag, nag, nag,” Dean says playfully, but he pulls his limbs in back against his body, making room for Roman to lay down next to him.

Roman grabs Dean’s hand, his left hand, moving his fingers up and down Dean’s ring finger. His own ring is still on his finger, hasn’t been taken off since he was in the hospital.

”You gonna put the damn ring on me?” Dean asks, jerking Roman out of the momentary daze he’d slipped into.

”Do you want me to?” Roman asks, meeting Dean’s eyes. There’s still some hesitance there, but Dean nods, chewing on his bottom lip.

”If we’re gonna do this, might as well do it right.”

Dean twists to the side, reaching over the edge of the bed, pulling his jeans over and digging through the pockets until he produces the silver band, looking down at it before he places it in the center of Roman’s palm.

Roman swallows roughly, rolling the ring across his palm. He ignores the fact that they’re naked, still covered in come and lube and dried saliva. His touch is delicate as he holds it between his fingers, like even the slightest force will shatter it, and he holds Dean’s hand in the hand that isn’t holding the ring, and he’s shaking, trembling, can hardly believe this is actually happening.

”Marry me?” Roman asks, throat tight, “Again? For real this time.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips, small as it may be. “Like I said, fuckin’ cheese ball.”

He lets Roman slip the ring on his finger, though, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to throw up, like the ring is a ticking time bomb, and Roman can’t resist, leans in and presses his lips to Dean’s, over and over, quick, chaste kisses that aren’t leading anywhere, but are more special than almost any others they’ve shared before.

”Nothing has to change,” Roman says when he pulls away, locks his eyes on Dean’s. He parrots Dean’s earlier words, says, “We’re still us, and that paper won’t define us, won’t change us. Just means you’re mine forever and it ain’t gonna be that easy or cheap if you try to get away.”

”You know how I hate spendin’ money,” Dean says, chuckling. “I’d never wanna get away from you, anyway. You’re fuckin’ it for me, dude. Just, y’know, didn’t wanna like, legally saddle you to all my shit, forever and ever, amen.”

”Yeah, well,” Roman says, flops back down on the bed, dragging Dean down with him, “it’s a done deal now.”

Dean hums, resting his head on Roman’s chest. Their left hands meet on Roman’s stomach, matching rings glinting in the light.

”So,” Dean says, rubbing his fingertips over Roman’s ring. “We’re married. Now what?”

”Honeymoon,” Roman says. “Somewhere nice and sunny. Maybe a beach.”

Dean snorts. “The fuck we gonna get time off for that?”

Yeah, Roman knows. It’s just a dream, anyway. He’s lucky Dean even has time for him right now, what with the busy schedule he has being the new champion and all, not to mention the interviews they still have to give in light of their marriage.

At least those will be easier, Roman thinks, a smile tugging at his lips. No more lying, no more faking, and he can finally tell his family he’s married, for real.

”Yeah, I know,” Roman says with a sigh. “Maybe for Christmas we can do something.”

It’s a thought, one they’ll keep shelved for now. So much can change before then, and Roman doesn’t want to plan and book a trip that they might have to cancel because of schedule changes or injuries or any other multitude of things.

”Maybe,” Dean says, covering his mouth when he yawns. “Hey, how’s your head?”

”S’fine,” Roman says, not even having to think about it. He hasn’t had even the slightest trace of a headache for the last couple days—well, that’s not entirely true. He has, but it wasn’t anything from the concussion, just the stress of the situation they were in, but he doesn’t want to worry Dean, doesn’t want him to think he’s still feeling the effects of the concussion when he’s not. They’ve had enough to stress about lately, but now that it’s all taken care of, settled, Roman wants to keep things as stress-free as he can. They deserve it.

”Gonna take a nap, wake me in an hour so we can eat,” Dean says, yawning again.

Roman nods, fighting his own yawn. He doubts he’ll be awake in an hour, but he’ll let Dean think he will be, just so Dean can get some rest. There are still purple smudges beneath his eyes, and Roman wants them gone.

He cards his fingers through the tangles of Dean’s hair, his breathing slowly evening out, and Roman swallows past the lump in his throat, blinks back the tears in his eyes. A few days ago, he didn’t think they’d ever be here, didn’t think they’d ever be able to overcome their drunken screw up, and it’s terrifying to realize how goddamn close he came to losing Dean forever.

They’re here now, though, wrapped up in each other, rings on their fingers, married and okay with it.

It’s not how Roman wanted it to happen, and while he wishes Dean were happier, he’ll settle for Dean being okay with it for now. They’ve got plenty of time, anyway.

They’re married, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> cw: hangover induced vomiting in the first section


End file.
